


The Sound of Settling Down

by DiscoveringAlaska



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Epilogue, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Series, settling down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscoveringAlaska/pseuds/DiscoveringAlaska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a thing they did. It had started as a way to relieve stress after a particularly brutal case, it didn’t mean anything more. Until it did.</p>
<p>Over two decades after Dean picked Sam up from Stanford the boys have finally settled down. A rundown house, rusty pipes, and a broken porch pale in comparison to their personal issues. Each on their own journey to cope with the past and welcome the future, only to find it in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Settling Down

**Author's Note:**

> After weeks of this just sitting on my computer, I decided to post it.

It happened slowly, neither of the boys noticed that they had started to settle after months of drifting. One late morning, Dean woke up after a run-of-the-mill salt and burn, and instead of pestering Sam into looking for a new case he just packed his things, ready to put the case behind them. Silently, he watched Sam from the corner of his eye, avoiding his questioning gaze. Without motive or a plan, they loaded into the Impala and drove.

That’s all they did for weeks, switching places to rest after hours and miles of asphalt passed beneath the Impala in a haze. Sleeping in various decrepit motels along the way. Eventually, they stopped in Poughkeepsie, New York, of all places. It started as a place to rest, to recover from the hurt they denied, and pain they now feel deep in their bones. But eventually it too, became permanent. Slow and lazy, nothing forced. It was their turn to live for themselves, and 25 years after Dean picked Sam up from Stanford, they had a place to call home. 

It started in a motel, the way most things in their life did. The morning after they reached Poughkeepsie, Sam voiced what they were both thinking. He was tired of being on the road and Dean agreed easily. That was it, no guilt or second guessing. Slowly, Dean and Sam built a new life for themselves. One mundane job became two, a cramped motel room became a small apartment, and that became a house, a home. Dean’s first choice would have been somewhere warmer, easier on their aging bodies. However, Poughkeepsie held history and they chose to stay.

\-----------------One Year Later-------------------

Dean woke slowly, like he did most days now. Instead of instant alert, he let it wash over him at its own pace, gradually building to full consciousness. Dean sat up with a groan, pulling the sheet higher on his waist as he went. For a moment he just sat there, on the edge of his bed. He yawned, running his hand through his hair, trailing lower to work the kinks out of his neck that came with a good night’s sleep. 

With a final stretch and crack of his back, Dean turned to gaze at Sam. He looked good, early morning sun peeking through the curtains, casting a hazy glow on Sam’s tan skin. The long summer working to fix the run down home they purchased in late March, had been kind to him in a way Dean would never know. Not with his sensitive skin and body, prematurely aged from years of hunting. 

Sam was still deep in sleep, his breathing slow and relaxed. Hair splayed over Dean’s pillow, shorter, almost like it was back in his college days. Looking vaguely like a halo. His anti-possession tattoo was a stark contrast in comparison to the bronze glow of his skin, and the white sheet slung low on his hips. Sam looked years younger when he was asleep, softer in a way that Dean missed. Innocence lost during their pursuit to save the humanity, he supposed. With that thought Dean reigned in a sigh, stood quietly, and made his way to the bathroom down the hall. 

The handle squeaked loudly in protest when Dean started the shower, rusty handle on the long list of things to fix around their home. He didn’t mind though, high on the list of permanent living pros Dean had accumulated, was having your own shower. Dean never had to question if the tub was clean and his favorite shower products were always available. Something he now gave much more thought to, never having the chance to do so on the road. 

The room slowly filled with steam but yet, he didn’t move to get under the inviting spray that was calling his name. Instead, Dean just stared at himself in the mirror. His thoughts stuck on the previous night, something that hadn’t happened since they quit hunting over a year ago. Dean didn’t like to think about it, it was just a thing they did. It had started as a way to relieve stress after a particularly brutal case. It didn’t mean anything more, at least that’s what Dean wanted to believe. 

Dean’s eyes were glued to the possessive marks on his body. Rule number one about this ‘thing’ of theirs was to never leave lasting marks. Yet, here he was with a darkening hickey low on the hollow of his throat, and the impression of fingers on his hips. It should bother him, it was his own rule after all, and one he enforced with anyone he slept with, not just Sam. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. They were just bruises after all, and bruises fade. With a weighted sigh, Dean scrubbed at his neck with his rough callused hand, and finally stepped in the shower. 

Meanwhile, Sam laid in Dean’s bed, waiting for the inevitable fallout that would come with last night’s actions. Neither man had been with anyone since they quit hunting, both too involved in their own path toward healing. However, just because they didn’t act on their desires, didn’t mean they weren’t there, under the surface, building. Tension had been growing for weeks, unavoidable almost.

The previous night was so much more than a way to relieve stress. Things were changing, he could feel it in his soul. He couldn’t tell whether it was for better or worse. So Sam just laid there, in a tangle of sheets that smelled like Dean, and waited. 

\-------------------------------------------------

The first time Sam noticed something different, Dean was working on the leaky pipes under the kitchen sink, while he was sanding down the peeling kitchen walls. The two story house they purchased about 10 miles out of town was a little more than a fixer upper, but that’s what they needed. A long project to keep their hands busy and their minds focused.

Busted pipes, old electrical system, cracked floorboards, and peeling paint only the beginning of the long list of things they need to work on. The house had been on the market a long time, no one wanting to put the money or the effort into it. Sam and Dean though, they saw the potential of it. Older, broken, but still standing. The decrepit house was a shadow of them in a way. 

Together they focused on the necessities first, such as, plumbing and electricity. Working their way slowly, but surely down Sam’s ranked list. Now they could focus on less pressing matters like, paint colors and flooring. Carpet versus hardwood, ended in a fight the first time Sam brought it up. Dean against carpet with every fiber of his being, a waste of money that stains when you look at it. 

Dean was frustrated, muffled swears streaming out from under the sink. The rusty pipes he had initially thought would be easy to replace were putting up valiant battle. Sam on the other hand, was having a grand old time, just rubbing sandpaper back and forth on the wall, according to Dean anyway. Finally, with a loud groan and the sound of rusted metal hitting the floor, Dean had won the battle, but the war was still on.

“Sam, hand me the wrench on the floor,” Dean asked. Voice muffled from under the sink. 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam replied, setting down his own tools before squatting by Dean’s legs to pass him the wrench. Dean gave his thanks with a Dean-like grunt, continuing his war with the ancient plumbing.

“Sammy, I need your help,” Dean said. Just as Sam was about to return to his own task.

“With what? Not like there’s a lot of room for two grown men over six feet under there.” However, his complaints didn’t stop him from squeezing next to Dean.

“Shove it bitch, and hold this here, so I can attach this.” Dean’s grin clear in his tone.

“Whatever jerk,” was Sam’s eloquent reply, as he shimmied his up next to Dean. He worked quickly as Sam held the pipe in place, finishing only seconds before Sam’s arm went completely numb.

“Ooo-kay Sammy, that should do it, turning the water back on. Turn the faucet when I say so,” Dean said, elbowing him in the side as he maneuvered to turn on the water valve.  
With a huff, Sam shimmed back out from under their kitchen sink, hand grazing Dean’s thigh as he went to stand up, causing his heart to skip a beat. Sam wasn’t sure why. It had been a regular occurrence lately, starting not long after Dean’s recent tactile nature surfaced. 

“Tell me when Dean,” Sam waited, hand clasped on the faucet handle.

“Now, Sammy.”

With a twist of the handle, water pulsed out of the faucet. Everything was fine, at least for the first few seconds. Suddenly, the pipe Dean had been working on burst apart. Spraying Dean in the face and soaking his clothes. A large puddle forming around the sink before Sam or Dean were able to react. 

“Fuck, turn it off!” yelled Dean, as if it were Sam’s fault.

Sam ran to grab a towel before Dean could blow a gasket. On his way back he slipped on the water that had pooled on the floor, landing on his back not far from Dean.

“Sam? Sammy?! Are you okay?” Concern was clear in Dean’s voice as he crawled over to where Sam lay on the floor. Close to reaching panicked levels.

“Come on Sam, answer me.” Dean gently shook his shoulder.

“I’m okay, Dean.” With a groan and some assistance, Sam sat up. Throwing the towel at Dean’s face, a half-hearted glare all he got in return. 

“You sure Sammy? I don’t want you down playing anything.” Dean’s hand reached up to push Sam’s damp hair back from his face. His obvious once over to check for injures sent Sam’s pulse racing and heat coursing through him. 

“I’m fine Dean, let’s just get the water cleaned up and call a plumber.” Sam went to stand but Dean’s callused hand pushed him flat, further soaking him with water. 

“A plumber? You doubting my skills Sam? The all-knowing and all-powerful, Dean Winchester?” Dean had that shit-eating grin of his on his face, the look he got before he did something annoying. Dean’s grin grew as he shook the water out of his own hair, sopping with water from the busted pipes, targeting Sam’s face. Sam retaliated, taking him by surprise when he shoved Dean onto his back, swinging his leg to straddle his hips, and shaking his own hair in retaliation. 

“Come on Sam! You can’t use my own trick against me!” protested Dean, his body thrashing under Sam’s weight, accidentally grinding his hips into Sam’s. His own body reacting to Dean’s in a way it hadn’t in a long time. He froze, so did Dean when he realized what was happening, a shocked expression quickly schooled into shy grin.

After that tension began to grow, both boys skirting around each other, hiding their feelings. Until last night. It was a normal evening, the boys arguing about what to watch over dinner. The downstairs filled with the aroma of Dean’s latest cooking adventure. Dinner was good, it usually was, and as always chased with a beer. One of the ways Dean kept himself busy this past year was by cooking, an easy task that didn’t leave his body aching the same way working on the house did. 

The end credits from a cheesy end-of-the-world movie played in the background. Dean and Sam were sitting on their couch, one of the few things Dean insisted they buy new. Sitting close, half their couch practically unoccupied, other than their tangle of legs across the cushions. Neither Sam, nor Dean seemed to mind though. They were making up for years of lost time, just enjoying each others company without somewhere to be, or something to kill. 

Sam like to think of it as cuddling. Dean would kill him if he expressed that thought, even though he knew Dean had thought of it before. That didn’t stop Dean from leaning against him, back to Sam’s chest, legs in front of them on the couch. Dean drawing small circles into Sam’s wrist, Sam tracing lazy patterns up and down Dean’s arm.

The next movie started, the boys’ attention on it hazy and uninterested. Dean was more interested in Sam’s warm and inviting chest. His hand dropped from Sam’s wrist to his thigh, drawing patterns on the soft flannel pajamas. Absently, Dean thought about the faded scar on Sam’s thigh, a lasting reminder of a werewolf attack that almost went horribly wrong. The thought made Dean anxious, his hand gripping Sam’s thigh tight. 

“Dean, you okay?” Sam noticed the near death grip on his thigh, suddenly ridged muscles, and worried he was having another flashback.

“Yeah, Sammy, I'm okay. Remember that werewolf attack outside of Red Lake Falls?”

“That was a long time ago Dean, I’m still here.”

An emotion Dean couldn’t place washed over him, but he knew one thing. He needed to touch Sam, feel him, know that he was okay. With a grunt and a pop of protest from his knee, Dean turned to face Sam. 

Everything seemed to hit Dean like a train. They ended up on the other side, okay and mostly whole. They owned a house, using fake identities of course, but one they paid for with their own money. Money earned from their two stable jobs. Dean was a bookkeeper for an auto shop, his body no longer able to work on anything other than the Impala. Sam a paralegal for one of the few law firms in Poughkeepsie. Not a lawyer, but Sam had come to terms with that. Of course Dean was aware of all this, but it never really registered, now all of it suddenly crashing down on him. The only familiar, solid, thing around him was Sam. His body reacted before his mind caught up. 

Dean pushed forward, his body moving in closer, his own lips so close to Sam’s that he could feel his breath escaping them. Dean looked into Sam’s intense gaze, looking for a sign that what was about happen was okay. When Dean saw no rejection in his green eyes, he closed the distance between their lips. 

When the last few inches disappeared Dean finally got to indulge in a kiss neither men allowed previously. Worried it would make everything too real, too personal. The kiss was short, tasting of dinner and beer. The one that followed was something else entirely, full of passion, desire, and longing. They never allowed for anything more than sexual release in this thing of theirs, but along the way something changed, they changed. 

Neither of them would ever find someone that could complete each other in the same way. This was the only way it would ever play out, written into every fiber of their being. Countless miles of American highway being the thread that sewed their destiny, tethering them into one soul occupying two bodies. 

Their lips crashed, tongues collided, hands wandered. Both trying to make up for lost time, past mistakes, and hopefully, a new future. Dean kissed Sam feverishly, shedding their clothes as they made their way up the stairs, and down the hall to Dean’s room. The door banging against the wall in their rush to reach the bed. 

\-------------------------------------------------

Sam was pulled back to the present by Dean walking into the room. Towel slung low on his waist, last night’s bruises on display. He watched silently as Dean walked across the room to grab clothes from his dresser. Dropping his towel unabashedly before pulling on his clothes. 

Sam looked away, staring out the window. The rustling of fabric the only thing he could focus on. Only looking back when the opposite side of the bed dipped, Dean sitting down to put on socks, boots set aside. 

“Going somewhere?” Sam asked, tension settling low in the stomach. 

“Running into town, gonna pick up some supplies to fix the front porch before one of us falls through.” Dean finished lacing up his boots, turning to look at Sam, a soft smile on his face. Tension slowly starting to leave his body at the look on Dean’s face, quick as it came. 

“Need some help? I can go with you.”

“That’s okay Sammy, but you better be ready to tear the porch apart when I get back.” With that Dean walked out of the room, leaving Sam to his thoughts.

\-------------------------------------------------

During his shower Dean came to terms with last night, he knew it changed things. He wasn’t sure what just yet, but he wanted to find out. Previous years foreshadowing how this would always play out. One thing he did know for sure, was that the front step needed fixing after a rotted board cracked under his weight. He would go from there. 

So he got dressed, grabbed his keys, and climbed into the beat up old pickup they bought to haul supplies after he refused to put sheets of plywood or two-by-fours into his baby. He shifted into drive, nothing focused him like the long stretch of asphalt meeting the horizon. So with a plan in mind, Dean did what he did best, and drove. 

Dean was the type of man to spring into action and think later, consequences be damned. Last night was a good example of that. However, Dean believed in what his gut told him, usually ending up lucky in his endeavors. Right now Dean’s body wasn’t fighting him so he chose to listen, his mind in agreement. He wanted to give whatever they started last night a try, he was tired of running. 

When Dean pulled up to the house, old truck rumbling his approach, Sam was sitting on the bottom porch step reading a book. He looked good, a pair of well-worn black Carhartts and a paint splattered shirt on his tall frame. The door slammed shut behind him, as he made his way to the back of the truck, Sam walking over to help him.

Before Dean’s brain could catch up with his body, he had Sam backed up against the tailgate. His face close to Sam’s, lips only inches apart. He looked into Sam’s eyes, brain catching up with his action, unsure if Sam was okay with this. Just because he came to terms with it, didn’t mean Sam had. He didn’t have the time to question himself too long. Sam surged forward, crushing their lips together, meeting in a rush of pleasure. Dean shoved Sam back again, trapping him against the tailgate. Sam’s hands sliding up his neck to tangle in his hair. His own gripping Sam’s waist, knee pushing between his. This kiss so much better than the night before, not as awkward or fumbling, but just as passionate. The two taking their time, tongues meeting, hands grazing, hearts pounding. 

Dean’s breath caught in his chest when they finally parted. The setting sun casting a glow on Sam’s face, eyes closed and a soft smile on his lips, rendering him breathless. When he opened his eyes, Dean’s world narrowed. Focus ensnared by Sam. He was the only person who ever looked at him like that, with unconditional love. Even through all the hell they had been dealt. It hit him full force, his view of the world tilted. 

“What are you staring at?” Sam’s voice startled him out of his thoughts, noticing the hand on his chest for the first time. 

“Nothing bitch, help me unload the truck,” Dean replied, shoving Sam’s shoulder, reaching around him to open the tailgate. His actions speaking loud enough for Sam. Together they unloaded the lumber from the truck, making a plan of action for the porch along the way. 

Sam stood with his arms crossed, legs apart, looking more relaxed than he had in years. Maybe it was the thought of total porch annihilation, maybe it was that for the first time they had a place that was really theirs. Something they worked hard for, something they deserved. It took years, endless sacrifice, and losing everything, time and time again, but they finally made it. 

This time when Dean kissed Sam, it wasn’t his body acting for him. He thought about it, his gaze locked on him once again. He thought about how Sam’s lips would feel against his, the scratch of stubble he neglected to shave, the soft cotton of his shirt with rough patches of paint, the smell of freshly washed clothes combined with spearmint toothpaste, and the soft feel of his tanned skin. Dean took his time, taking in all of Sam, enjoying the sensations. They kissed slow, teasing, sweet, taking in each others bodies. There was no rush, no threats of the supernatural, just the two of them. The only thing left to do now was to live, and enjoy the time they had left. The last stop on their crooked, winding, hell-bent road.


End file.
